Chapter Text
The next morning, the sunlight streaming through the high windows of Navamin Private Hospital felt different—clearer, brighter, and charged with a restless energy.
Orm was already at the central ER workstation, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, though her mind was miles away, replaying the way Lingling’s thumb had felt against her chin. Every time the automatic doors hissed open, her head snapped up.
Then, Lingling walked in.
She was in her dark blue scrubs, her lab coat crisp, looking every bit the formidable Trauma Resident. But as she approached the nurse’s station, her pace slowed. Usually, she arrived like a whirlwind of orders and sharp critiques. Today, she walked with a hesitant, almost shy grace.
Their eyes met. Orm felt that familiar heat rise to her cheeks, but she didn't look away. Lingling offered a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, her dark eyes softening the moment they landed on Orm.
"Morning," Lingling said softly. It wasn't her "doctor voice." It was quiet, meant only for the two meters of space between them.
"Morning, Dr. Kwong," Orm replied, her voice equally hushed.
Lingling reached into the deep pocket of her lab coat. Instead of a stethoscope or a pager, she pulled out a familiar yellow bag of honey-butter chips. Previously, she would have waited until Orm was on break to hide them in the snack jar. Today, she looked Orm directly in the eye and slid the bag across the polished marble counter.
"For your shift," Lingling said, her fingers lingering on the bag for a second before she pulled back. "I heard they help with... productivity."
Orm bit her lip to hide a massive grin, her heart doing a frantic somersault. "Is that a medical opinion, Doctor?"
Lingling’s lips twitched. "A personal one."
While Orm and Lingling existed in their own quiet bubble, the rest of the hospital was starting to hum with a different kind of energy. In the staff break room, the "nurse’s grapevine" was in full effect.
Nurse Prim leaned over her iced coffee, whispering frantically to two other nurses. "Did you see that? At the station just now? Dr. Kwong didn't just talk to Orm—she gave her something. And she smiled! A real smile!"
"No way," another nurse replied, stirring her sugar. "She doesn't smile at anyone except Dr. Win. And anyway, Orm is obsessed with Dr. Win. We all know she's been crushing on him for two years."
"That’s the thing," Prim whispered, eyes wide. "She didn't even look for Dr. Win when he walked past the trauma bay earlier. She was too busy looking at the hallway toward the OR... waiting for Dr. Kwong."
"This is better than a Thai drama."
"You're working too hard," Lingling murmured as she passed, not stopping, but letting her hand briefly brush against Orm’s arm.
Orm, feeling emboldened by the previous night’s "sauce incident," decided to push her luck. "And you're being too nice, Dr. Kwong," she teased, loud enough for only Lingling to hear. "If people see you being this soft, they might lose their fear of the 'Scary Dr. Kwong’.'"
Lingling stopped in her tracks. She turned around, and for the first time in front of other staff, she didn't give a sarcastic rebuttal. Instead, she looked at Orm with an expression of pure, unadulterated warmth. She gave a small, genuine laugh—a sound Orm had never heard before—and shook her head.
"Let them talk," Lingling said softly. "I only care about what one person thinks."
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her own ear, a mirror of the gesture she’d given Orm the night before, and walked away.
Orm stood there, clutching a patient file to her chest, her heart beating so fast she was sure the monitors in the room would pick it up. She looked over at Dr. Win, who was across the room laughing with a group of residents. For the first time in two years, she didn't feel the "spark." She just saw a friend.
She turned back to her work, a secret, happy smile playing on her lips. The golden boy of Neurobmight have been the one she wanted before, but it was the sharp tongued resident who had walked her home, wiped the sauce from her chin, and brought her chips.
The hospital was still the same busy, chaotic place, but the dynamic had shifted forever.
The afternoon sun was beginning to dip behind the Bangkok skyline, casting long, golden shadows across the rooftop garden of Navamin Private Hospital. It was a rare moment of quiet for the two residents.
Win leaned against the railing, sipping a canned coffee and watching his best friend. Lingling was staring intensely at a potted jasmine plant, her mind clearly miles away from trauma protocols.
"So," Win started, his voice casual but laced with intent. "How long are we going to pretend that you aren’t head-over-heels for a certain ER nurse?"
Lingling didn't even flinch, though her grip on her coffee tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about, Win. I’m just... observing the efficiency of the ER staff."
"Observing? Ling, you’re practically vibrating every time she breathes in your direction," Win laughed, nudging her shoulder. "Just admit it. You like Orm."
"I don't—" Lingling started, her usual defensive wall rising. But she caught Win’s expression—steady, knowing, and genuinely supportive. The lie died in her throat. She let out a long, shaky breath, the mask finally crumbling.
"Fine," she whispered, the word barely audible over the hum of the rooftop vents. "I like her. I like her so much it’s actually terrifying."
As soon as the words left her lips, Lingling felt a strange, physical sensation. The tightness that had lived in her chest for months—the knot of jealousy, insecurity, and repressed longing—suddenly loosened. She felt light. Almost dizzy with relief.
Win grinned and patted her shoulder firmly. "There she is. Welcome back to Earth, Lingling Kwong."
"Shut up," she muttered, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "But it doesn't matter. She likes you. Or at least, she did. I’m just the person who makes her cry."
"That’s where you’re wrong," Win countered. "But if you want to move past being the 'scary doctor,' you need to start courting her."
Lingling blinked, looking genuinely confused. "Courting? Like... in a period drama? I already gave her the chips, Win."
Win nearly choked on his coffee. "Chips? Ling, a bag of snacks is a nice gesture, but it’s not exactly a declaration of love. You need to do things that make her fall for you. Real effort. Think lunchboxes, handwritten notes... maybe even flowers."
Lingling looked horrified. "Flowers? In the hospital? I’m a trauma surgeon, Win. I don't do 'flowers.'"
"Do you want her to be your girlfriend or not?" Win asked bluntly.
The word 'girlfriend' hit Lingling like a physical force. She had spent so long admiring Orm from the shadows, content with just being near her, that she hadn't dared to imagine a reality where they actually belonged to each other. Orm, with her bubbly laughter and warm heart, as her girlfriend?
The thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated hope through her.
"I... I do," Lingling admitted, her voice gaining a sudden streak of determination.
"Good," Win said, setting his coffee down and rubbing his hands together like a mastermind. "Then we need a plan. Step one: No more 'accidental' snacks. We’re going to be intentional."
For the next thirty minutes, the duo sat huddled over a stone bench, whispering like co-conspirators. Win laid out the "strategy"—how to use her soft side without losing her "cool," and how to show Orm that she was the only one Lingling was looking at.
Lingling listened with the same intensity she used during a complex surgery, nodding as Win explained the nuances of a "thoughtful lunch." She was terrified, yes, but for the first time, she wasn't just watching Orm from the shadows. She was preparing to step into the light.
The following morning at 5:00 AM, the kitchen in Lingling’s apartment looked more like an operating theatre. There were no bloodstains, only the vibrant greens of asparagus and the golden hue of a perfectly folded tamagoyaki.
Lingling stood over a wooden bento box, her brow furrowed in the same intense concentration she used to repair a ruptured spleen. She was meticulously placing heart-shaped carrot slices over a bed of steamed jasmine rice.
“Is this too much?” she muttered to herself, holding a pair of chopsticks like a forceps. “Win said 'thoughtful,' but does this look 'desperate'?”
She groaned, leaning her forehead against the cool marble of the counter. She was a trauma surgeon. She dealt with life and death every day. Why was a lunchbox making her hands shake more than a multi-car pileup on the expressway?
Two hours later, Lingling walked into the ER. She was wearing her dark blue scrub, the armor—the perfectly pressed white coat, the stoic expression, the brisk pace. But tucked under her arm was a small insulated bag with a tiny, inconspicuous floral pattern.
She spotted Orm at the triage desk. Orm looked exhausted. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she was rubbing her temples while staring at a mountain of discharge papers.
Lingling’s heart did a painful squeeze. This was it.
She walked over, her boots clicking with more hesitation than usual. Win, who was currently "consulting" near the nurse's station (which really meant he was shamelessly eavesdropping), gave her a subtle "thumbs up" and a wink. Lingling ignored him, though she felt like throwing the lunchbox at his head.
"Nurse Orm," Lingling said, her voice steady but quiet.
Orm looked up, her eyes widening. "Dr. Kwong? Is there... is there another trauma case?"
"No," Lingling said. She set the insulated bag on the counter, pushing it toward Orm with a slow, deliberate motion. "I noticed you didn't go to the cafeteria during the shift change. Your blood sugar is likely dropping, which leads to clerical errors."
Orm blinked, confused. "Oh. I was just going to grab a sandwich later..."
"Don't," Lingling interrupted, her ears turning a faint pink. She cleared her throat and looked at a random monitor on the wall. "I... I accidentally made too much for my own lunch. It’s a waste to throw it away. You should eat it."
Orm took the bag, her fingers brushing against Lingling’s. She felt that familiar electric spark, but this time, Lingling didn't pull away immediately.
"You made this?" Orm whispered, stunned. "For me?"
"I said I made too much," Lingling repeated, though the lie was becoming paper-thin. "Just eat it. I have a surgery."
Lingling turned and walked away before Orm could say another word. Win watched her go, a proud, mischievous smirk on his face, before he sauntered over to Orm.
"Wow, a homemade lunch from the Goddess herself?" Win teased, leaning over the counter. "That’s rare. I’ve known her for years and she’s never 'accidentally' made too much for me."
Orm didn't even hear him. She slowly opened the bag and pulled out the wooden box. When she lifted the lid, she gasped.
It wasn't just food; it was a masterpiece. The colours were vibrant, the arrangement was surgical in its precision, and there, right in the center, was a small, hand-cut heart made of salmon. Under the lid, a tiny yellow sticky note was tucked away.
In Lingling’s sharp, elegant handwriting, it simply said:
Eat well. Don't push yourself too hard today. — L.K.
Orm felt a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the temperature of the ER. She looked toward the hallway where Lingling had vanished. The denial she had been clinging to for weeks began to crumble.
She picked up the chopsticks, her heart beating a frantic, happy rhythm. She realised that while she had spent two years looking at Dr. Win for sunshine, she had completely missed the beautiful, quiet moon that had been watching over her all along.
At the other end of the hallway, Lingling leaned against the wall, clutching her clipboard to her chest. She was breathing hard, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"I did it," she whispered to the empty corridor. "I actually did it."
A small, genuine smile—the one she usually reserved only for her dreams—broke across her face. She felt brave. She felt terrified. But mostly, she felt like she finally had a chance to finish what she had started in that 7-Eleven.
The lunchbox had been empty for hours, but the warmth it left in Orm’s chest was still glowing. She spent the rest of her shift in a daze, her mind looping over the image of those hand-cut heart-shaped carrots. Every time a colleague mentioned Dr. Win, Orm found her thoughts drifting back to the sharp, elegant handwriting on that sticky note.
Orm knew she couldn't let the gesture go unacknowledged.
As the evening shift began to wind down, Orm headed to the hospital’s premium café. She bought two drinks: a bright, overly-sweet strawberry frappe for herself, and a sleek, unsweetened Iced Americano—the kind she knew Lingling drank to survive her back-to-back surgeries.
She found Lingling on the rooftop garden. The sun had completely set, leaving the space illuminated by soft, recessed floor lights and the shimmering skyline of Bangkok. Lingling was standing by the railing, her white coat draped over one arm, looking out at the city. She looked like a painting—cool, distant, and breathtakingly beautiful.
"The Americano is for the 'Goddess' who forgot to eat her own lunch," Orm said softly, stepping onto the terrace.
Lingling startled, turning around. Her eyes immediately softened when she saw Orm holding the coffee. "You shouldn't have," Lingling murmured, though she reached out to take the cup.
"I should have," Orm countered, stepping closer. Their eyes met at a perfect, level plane. There was no looking up or down; there was only the intensity of being eye-to-eye. "The lunch was... it was the best thing I've eaten in months. Even the hearts."
Lingling’s ears turned pink, visible even in the dim light. "It was just... a surplus of ingredients."
"Lingling," Orm said, her voice turning serious. She stepped even closer, her own heart racing as she searched the other woman's face. "Why? You used to be so sharp with me. You used to act like I was just an annoying kid. Why all this... this sweetness suddenly?"
Lingling felt the weight of the moment. She could retreat. She could make a sarcastic remark about "professional teamwork" or "hospital morale." But she remembered the light feeling in her chest when she’d admitted the truth to Win. She remembered the "girlfriend" goal.
She set her coffee down on the stone ledge and took a deep breath, turning fully toward Orm. The proximity felt even more intimate—breath for breath, gaze for gaze.
"I was sharp because I was a coward," Lingling said, her voice steady but raw. "I watched you look at Win for two years, and I didn't know how to handle the fact that I wanted you to look at me like that instead. So, I used my tongue like a scalpel because I didn't think I had anything else to offer you."
Orm’s breath hitched. "Lingling..."
"No, let me finish," Lingling interrupted, her dark eyes locking onto Orm's with a fierce honesty. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind Orm’s ear. Her hand lingered there, her thumb tracing the line of Orm's jaw. "Win told me that if I want someone to know how I feel, I shouldn't just hide behind snacks and silence."
Lingling took a final, brave step until their chests were inches apart. The air between them hummed with a tension that was no longer about irritation, but about years of suppressed longing.
"I don't want to just 'orbit' you anymore, Orm," Lingling whispered. "I want to do this properly. I want to show you that I can be more than just a grumpy resident."
She took a breath, her gaze never wavering from Orm’s. "Nurse Orm... Kornaphat... may I have your permission to court you?"
The word "court" sounded so formal, so deliberate, and so uniquely Lingling.
Orm felt as if the world had tilted. For two years, she had chased the sun, only to realize that the moon had been pulling at her tide all along. The flustered, dizzy feeling she used to get with Win felt like a shallow spark compared to the deep, thrumming heat she felt standing eye-to-eye with Lingling.
"Court me?" Orm repeated, a playful, shy smile finally breaking across her face. "Does that mean more heart-shaped salmon?"
Lingling let out a small, relieved huff of a laugh, her forehead briefly leaning against Orm's. "It means whatever it takes to make you look at me the way you looked at that ramen the other night. Or better."
Orm reached up, her hands tentatively resting on Lingling’s shoulders, feeling the steady, strong frame of the woman she had once called annoying. "You're a very talented surgeon, Lingling. But I think you're going to be even better at this."
"Is that a yes?" Lingling asked, her eyes searching Orm’s.
"Yes," Orm whispered, leaning her head forward until it rested against Lingling’s shoulder. "It’s definitely a yes."
Lingling didn't hesitate this time. She wrapped her arms around Orm, pulling her close. Over Orm’s shoulder, she saw a familiar figure standing near the rooftop door—Win, who was shamelessly giving her a double "thumbs-up" before disappearing back into the hospital.
Lingling ignored him. For the first time, she didn't have to look up to find her happiness. It was right here, standing at her side, level with her heart.
—
The change in the Navamin ER was no longer a whisper; it was a visible shift in the hospital’s gravitational pull. For two years, Orm’s "crush " around Dr. Win had been a constant. Now, the staff watched in silent fascination as the planet changed its sun.
It wasn’t a sudden explosion, but a series of "not-so-subtle" moments. It was the way Lingling would wait by the nurse’s station just to walk Orm to the elevator. It was the way Orm’s eyes would light up when she saw a dark blue scrub cap, not a white coat. They weren't hiding it anymore. When they spoke, they stood close—eye-to-eye, in a private world that left the rest of the staff feeling like background characters in a romance drama.
—
It was 6:00 AM, the tail end of a gruelling night shift. The break room was dim, smelling of stale coffee and the promise of sleep. Orm was standing by the vending machine, staring tiredly at a row of chocolate bars.
"The almond one has more protein," a voice murmured beside her.
Orm turned, a weary but genuine smile spreading across her face. Lingling was there, her hair a bit messy from a long night in the OR, looking just as exhausted but staring at Orm with a bravery she hadn't possessed a week ago.
"I’m too tired to care about protein, Dr. Kwong," Orm teased.
Lingling reached out, her fingers brushing against Orm's as she pressed the button for the chocolate bar. "Then eat it for the sugar. Also..." Lingling paused, her heart thudding against her ribs. "You mentioned that new contemporary art exhibition at the riverside gallery. The one with the light installations?"
Orm blinked, surprised she remembered. "Yeah. I’ve wanted to go since it opened."
"Then go with me," Lingling said. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a clear, intentional request. "Saturday. Lunch first at that place you like, then the gallery. A real date, Orm."
Orm’s exhaustion vanished, replaced by a surge of warmth. "A real date? Are you sure you can handle being seen with a 'messy eater' in public, Doctor?"
Lingling’s lips curved into a soft, vulnerable smile. "I think I can manage."
–
Saturday arrived with a rare clear sky. Standing outside the gallery, both women looked different without their medical gear. Orm was in a soft, flowery sundress that made her look like the sun itself, while Lingling wore a sleek, elegant cream blouse and trousers—still sharp but more approachable.
Lunch had been a whirlwind of shy glances and accidental knee-brushes under the table. But the gallery was where the sweetness truly took over.
They walked through a room filled with hanging crystals that caught the light, casting rainbows across the white walls. They were walking side-by-side, their shoulders occasionally bumping. Lingling felt her palms sweating—a sensation she hadn't felt since her first solo surgery.
She looked at Orm, who was mesmerised by a light display. Without thinking, Lingling reached out. Her hand hovered for a second before she gently slid her fingers into Orm’s.
Orm stiffened for a heartbeat, then relaxed, her fingers immediately interlacing with Lingling’s. The contact was electric. They stood there, eye-to-eye in the prismatic light, neither of them looking at the art anymore. They didn't let go. They walked through the rest of the exhibition like that—fingers locked tight, a silent promise of belonging.
The drive back to the dorms was quiet, the air in Lingling’s car filled with a comfortable, charged tension. When they pulled up to the entrance, Lingling put the car in park but didn't unlock the doors immediately.
"I had a good time, Orm," Lingling said, her voice a bit raspy. She was blushing, the tips of her ears pink in the streetlights.
Orm leaned over, her face inches from Lingling’s. "Me too. And just so you know..." Orm whispered, her voice blunt and honest, "I’m already looking forward to our next date. Don't make me wait too long, Dr. Kwong."
Lingling’s blush deepened until her whole face was warm. She could barely mumble a "Goodnight" as Orm hopped out of the car with a playful wave and a bright, lingering smile.
The moment Lingling entered her own apartment, the cool facade vanished completely. She kicked off her heels and collapsed onto her bed, but she was too restless to stay still.
She rolled over onto the floor, clutching a pillow to her chest, her legs kicking the air in a fit of pure, unadulterated joy. She couldn't stop looking at her own hand—the hand that had been interlaced with Orm’s for two hours. She could still feel the warmth of Orm’s skin, the way their fingers fit together like a perfectly mapped anatomical puzzle.
"I’m so far gone," Lingling whispered to her empty ceiling, a happy, foolish grin plastered on her face.
She wasn't just crushing anymore. She was falling. And for the first time in her life, the brilliant Trauma Surgeon didn't want to be cured.
—
The Monday morning shift at Navamin Private Hospital usually began with the frantic clicking of keyboards and the sharp scent of morning espresso, but today, there was a palpable tension in the air. The "grapevine" was already buzzing—someone had spotted the unexpected pair at a gallery over the weekend.
Orm was at the central station, her fingers flying over a patient’s intake form, but her mind was still at that gallery, feeling the phantom pressure of Lingling’s fingers interlaced with hers.
The automatic doors of the Trauma wing slid open. Instead of her usual brisk, "don't-bother-me" stride, Lingling walked toward the ER station with a hesitant, almost shy grace. Her dark blue scrubs were crisp, but her expression wasn't the usual grumpy and stoic resident expression. Her ears were a faint, tell-tale pink.
She stopped right in front of Orm. The nurses nearby, including Nurse Prim, suddenly found very important reasons to stand within earshot.
"Nurse Orm," Lingling said, her voice low and slightly breathless.
"Dr. Kwong," Orm replied, her heart jumping.
Lingling reached out. It wasn't a fast movement; it was slow, deliberate, and visibly trembling. In front of the entire morning shift, she placed her hand over Orm’s on the marble counter. She didn't just touch her—she slid her fingers between Orm’s, locking them together.
The sound of a dropped chart echoed in the background.
Lingling leaned in, their eyes meeting at that perfect, level height. "I... I realised I didn't say goodbye properly after our date," Lingling whispered, her shyness warring with her newfound bravery. "I wanted to make sure you had this."
She used her other hand to slide a small, boutique pastry box onto the desk. It was from the expensive bakery near the resident’s dorm.
Orm felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Her face was a brilliant, burning crimson, but she didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she turned her palm up, squeezing Lingling’s hand back with a fierce, proud grip.
She looked at Lingling—really looked at her—and saw the vulnerability behind those dark eyes. This woman, the most talented and feared resident in the building, was standing here, blushing and holding her hand in front of everyone, just to make Orm feel special.
"Thank you, Lingling," Orm said, her voice soft but clear. She didn't use the title. She used the name.
Lingling gave a tiny, shy smile—the kind that made her look more like a girl in love than a distant trauma resident—before she squeezed Orm’s hand one last time and retreated toward the elevators, her pace a little faster than usual as the reality of her own boldness set in.
The moment the elevator doors hissed shut, the ER erupted into hushed, frantic whispers.
"Oh my god, Orm!" Nurse Prim squealed, leaning over the counter. "Was that... was that the Scary Kwong? Holding your hand? In public?"
"I think I need a heart monitor," another nurse joked. "The tension was so thick I could see it!"
Orm tried to focus on her screen, her ears still flaming. "She was just... being nice."
"Being nice?" a familiar, melodic voice teased.
Win sauntered over, a coffee in each hand and a look of pure mischief on his face. He leaned against the pillar, looking at the pastry box and then at Orm’s red face.
"I’ve known Dr. Kwong for a long time, Orm," Win said, nudging her arm with his elbow. "She doesn't do 'nice.' She does 'committed.' How does it feel to have the most intimidating woman in the hospital wrapped around your finger?"
Orm ducked her head, a giddy, uncontrollable laugh bubbling up in her chest. "It feels... really good, Dr. Win."
As the nurses continued to tease her, Orm opened the pastry box. Inside was a single, perfect, warm and flaky croissant.
Orm felt a surge of pride so strong it made her giddy. She wasn't just happy; she was honored. Lingling, who could have anyone, had chosen her. And she wasn't hiding it. She was "courting" her with a bravery that Orm had never expected from someone so guarded.
If she's this sweet during the courting phase, Orm thought, her heart doing a frantic somersault, what will happen when she's my girlfriend?
The word "girlfriend" made Orm’s breath catch. She wanted it. She wanted the labels, the official status, the right to walk into the Trauma wing and claim Lingling as hers.
She wanted to tell the whole hospital that Lingling Kwong didn't belong to the pedestal—she belonged to the ER nurse named Orm.
She looked toward the elevators, her eyes shining. She had found the moon, and she never wanted to let go.
—
The ER was humming with its usual mid-afternoon energy when a "minor trauma" case was brought into Bay 4. The patient, a young man in his mid-twenties named Pete, had a relatively shallow laceration on his forearm from a kitchen mishap. He was also, unfortunately for him, far too charming for his own good.
Orm was leaning over him, cleaning the wound with practiced, gentle hands. Her natural warm and friendly energy was on full display as she tried to keep him calm.
"Almost done, Khun Pete," Orm said with a professional smile. "Just a few more stitches and we’ll have you out of here."
"I don't know, Nurse Orm," Pete said, leaning back and giving her a roguish grin that had worked in many a Bangkok nightclub. "I think I might need to stay longer. My heart is suddenly racing. Is it a side effect of the injury, or is it because you’re the one treating me?"
Orm laughed, a light, polite sound. She was used to patients being friendly. "It’s probably just the adrenaline. Don't worry, you're in good hands."
"I’d like to stay in your hands," Pete countered, reaching out his uninjured hand to playfully touch Orm’s sleeve. "What time do you get off? I know a great spot for dinner that’s much better than hospital food."
The temperature in Bay 4 seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second. The curtain was yanked back with a sharp, metallic zip, and Dr. Lingling Kwong stepped into the small space.
She didn't look like the shy woman who had held Orm’s hand that morning. She looked like the sharp trauma resident—elegant, intimidating, and currently radiating a level of frost that could freeze the IV bags.
"Nurse Sethratanapong," Lingling said, her voice like a velvet-covered blade. "Report."
Orm blinked, startled. "Oh! Dr. Kwong. Khun Pete has a 5cm laceration, clean edges. I was just finishing the prep for the sutures."
Lingling took the chart from the end of the bed, her eyes scanning it with terrifying intensity. She then turned her gaze to Pete. It wasn't a glance; it was a clinical, predatory assessment.
"Khun Pete," Lingling said, her voice perfectly professional but laced with a subtle, dark edge. "You mentioned a racing heart? If you’re experiencing tachycardia, we need to cancel the local anaesthetic and run a full cardiac panel. It involves several large needles and a stay in the observation ward. Possibly an overnight monitor."
Pete’s grin faltered. "Oh... uh, no, I was just joking with the nurse."
"In an Emergency Department, we don't joke about cardiac symptoms," Lingling replied, stepping closer until she was standing directly beside Orm. Their shoulders brushed—firmly, intentionally. Lingling didn't move away. "And since you have so much energy to flirt, I assume your pain levels are low enough that we can proceed without further delay."
She turned to Orm, her gaze softening for a micro-second before returning to its sharp focus. "I’ll handle the sutures myself. You’re needed in Triage, Nurse Sethratanapong. Now."
Orm recognized that tone. It was Lingling’s "I’m in charge" voice, but there was a flicker of something else in the set of her jaw—jealousy, raw and unmistakable.
"But Dr. Kwong, I can finish—"
"Triage. Now," Lingling repeated, her dark eyes locking onto Orm’s. There was a silent plea and a command hidden there: Go, before I say something unprofessional to this man.
Orm hid a giddy smile, her heart doing a frantic dance. She picked up her tray. "Yes, Doctor."
As Orm walked away, she heard Lingling’s voice behind the curtain, cool and clinical. "Now, Khun Pete, let’s focus on your arm and keep our hands—and our comments—to ourselves. We have a very busy ward."
Orm stepped out of the bay and nearly ran into Win, who was leaning against a nearby pillar, shamelessly eavesdropping. He was shaking his head, a huge, amused grin on his face.
"Wow," Win whispered, leaning in toward Orm. "I thought I’d seen everything, but 'Protective Lingling' is a whole new level of scary. Did you see her eyes? She looked like she wanted to perform surgery on his personality."
Orm blushed, clutching her tray to her chest. "She was just being... thorough."
"Orm, she basically marked her territory with a surgical marker," Win teased, laughing quietly. "She’s terrible at hiding it. She’s officially a 'jealous' girlfriend, and she isn't even your girlfriend yet."
—
Orm spent the next hour in Triage, but she couldn't stop smiling. The way Lingling had stepped in—the way she hadn't bothered to hide her irritation at Pete’s flirting—made Orm feel a sense of belonging she had never felt with Win.
Win’s admiration felt like a spotlight, but Lingling’s jealousy felt like a shield. It was brave. It was loud. It was Lingling saying, This one is mine.
She wants me to be hers, Orm thought, feeling a rush of heat that made her giddy. She didn't want Lingling to stop. She wanted to see more of this side—the side of Lingling that was so fiercely, honestly in love that she couldn't even stand a patient making a joke.
As she looked back toward Bay 4, she saw Lingling walking out, looking stoic and calm again. But when their eyes met across the busy ER, Lingling’s gaze lingered, a silent, possessive warmth in her eyes that told Orm everything she needed to know.
—
The hospital clock struck 3:30 AM, the quietest hour in the Navamin Private Hospital. The ER was finally steady, and both Orm and Lingling were nearing the end of their respective double shifts.
Orm stood in the staff locker room, slowly untying her sneakers. Her movements were sluggish, but her mind was still racing with the image of Lingling yanking back that curtain and staring down a flirting patient. She couldn't help but smile; the memory of "Protective Lingling" was the only thing keeping her awake.
A soft knock at the locker room door made her jump.
Lingling was leaning against the doorframe. She had already changed out of her lab coat, wearing a simple black hoodie over her dark blue scrubs. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her face. She looked tired, but when her eyes met Orm’s, they ignited with a soft, steady flame.
"Leaving?" Lingling asked, her voice raspy and intimate in the quiet room.
"Just finished," Orm replied, her heart already beginning its familiar, giddy thrum. "Is the Scary Kwong finally calling it a night too?"
Lingling didn't tease back this time. She walked into the room, stopping when she was standing directly in front of Orm. They stood eye-to-eye, the space between them charged with the weight of everything that had happened since that 7-Eleven run.
"About earlier," Lingling started, her ears turning pink as she looked at her own hands. "In Bay 4. I know I was... unprofessional. My focus should have been on the clinical aspect of the laceration, not the patient’s conversational choices."
Orm chuckled, stepping closer until their shoulders brushed. "You were jealous, Lingling. It’s okay to admit it."
Lingling looked up, her gaze fierce and honest. "I wasn't just jealous, Orm. I was possessive. And I realised I don't have the right to be—not officially. Not yet."
She took a deep breath, her bravery returning. Lingling reached out and took both of Orm’s hands in hers. Her palms were warm, and her grip was firm, as if she were afraid Orm might vanish if she let go.
"I’ve spent a week 'courting' you," Lingling said, her voice trembling slightly. "I’ve made lunchboxes, I’ve brought you snacks, and I’ve walked you to your door. I’ve tried to show you that you’re the only person in this entire hospital—in this entire city—that I care to look at."
Lingling stepped even closer, until they were so close Orm could see the tiny flecks of gold in her dark irises. The Trauma Resident looked vulnerable, her heart on her sleeve.
"I don't want to just 'court' you anymore, Orm. I don't want to be the resident who stares at you from the shadows or the woman who gets annoyed when a patient flirts with you because I'm afraid I'll lose you."
She squeezed Orm's hands. "I want to be the person you go home to. I want to be the one you call when you have a bad shift. I want everyone in this building to know that I belong to you, and you belong to me."
"Orm Kornaphat Sethratanapong," Lingling whispered, her gaze unwavering. "Will you be my girlfriend? Officially?"
The word "girlfriend" echoed in Orm's head like a beautiful melody. It was the moment she had been waiting for, the moment that turned her "crush" into a reality. The pride she felt for Lingling—for this woman who had once been so guarded and cold—was overwhelming.
Orm didn't say anything at first. Instead, she let go of one of Lingling’s hands and reached up, cupping Lingling’s face. She traced the line of her jaw, her thumb resting near Lingling's lips.
"You took your time, Dr. Kwong," Orm teased, her voice thick with emotion. "I’ve been waiting to say 'yes' to that question since you wiped that sauce off my chin."
Orm leaned in, resting her forehead against Lingling’s. "Yes. A thousand times, yes. I’m yours. And you’re definitely, officially, mine."
Lingling let out a long, shaky exhale, a sound of pure relief. She pulled Orm into a tight, crushing hug, burying her face in the crook of Orm’s neck. They stood there in the quiet locker room, two equal souls finally finding their rhythm.
As they walked out of the hospital together, hand-in-hand, they passed the night-shift security desk. Lingling didn't let go. In fact, she lifted their interlaced hands slightly as they passed, a silent but clear declaration.
Outside, the Bangkok morning air was beginning to warm up.
"So," Orm said, skipping a little as they walked toward the dorms. "Now that I'm officially the Goddess's girlfriend, do I get special treatment in the ER?"
Lingling laughed—a bright, happy sound that echoed through the empty street. "You get the best treatment I have to offer. But you still have to fill out your intake forms on time, Nurse Orm."
"We'll see about that," Orm laughed, leaning her head on Lingling’s shoulder.
She looked up at the stars fading into the dawn. She had started this journey chasing the hospital’s Golden Boy, but she had ended it finding something much more precious: a woman who loved her loudly, bravely, and with everything she had.
The night air atop Navamin Private Hospital was thick with the scent of impending rain and the distant, low hum of the city’s heart. But for Lingling, the world had narrowed down to the sterile, blinking lights of the ICU monitors she had just left. The surgery had been a marathon, a desperate battle against a trauma too severe for even her talented hands to fully fix. The patient was in critical condition, and the weight of that uncertainty felt like lead in her chest.
She stood by the rooftop railing, her cool mask discarded in the darkness. Her shoulders, usually so straight and defiant, were slumped with the exhaustion of a woman who felt she had failed.
"I had a feeling the rooftop would be your hiding spot."
Lingling didn't have to turn to know it was Orm. She heard the soft click of the door and the familiar, light rhythm of her footsteps. Orm walked up beside her, holding two cups of thick, steaming hot chocolate—a far cry from the bitter black coffee Lingling usually drank.
"The ICU nurse told me," Orm said softly, sliding one of the cups into Lingling’s cold hand. "They said you stayed behind for three hours after your shift ended just to watch the vitals."
Lingling stared at the swirling marshmallows in the cup, her voice raspy. "I should have been faster with the arterial clamp. If I had been ten seconds faster..."
"Lingling, look at me."
Orm reached out, setting their cup on the ledge so she could take Lingling’s face in her hands. Their gazes locked instantly—level and unwavering. Orm’s eyes were filled with a fierce, nurturing warmth that began to melt the ice around Lingling’s heart.
"You are a surgeon, not a god," Orm whispered. "You gave that patient a chance they wouldn't have had with anyone else. Now, let yourself rest and let your girlfriend take care of you for a minute."
Orm pulled her into a deep, grounding hug. Lingling collapsed into the embrace, burying her face in Orm’s shoulder, her arms wrapping around Orm’s waist as if she were an anchor in a storm. They stood there for a long time, the only sound the distant traffic and the rhythmic thrum of the rooftop vents.
When they finally backed away from the hug, the air between them changed. The grief and exhaustion hadn't disappeared, but they had been pushed aside by something far more potent.
Orm noticed it first—the way Lingling’s eyes had turned dark and hooded, the pupils dilating until the gold flecks were nearly swallowed by black. Lingling wasn't looking at Orm’s eyes anymore; her gaze had dropped to Orm’s lips, which were still slightly parted from the cold air.
Lingling’s breath hitched. She stepped closer, the fraction of an inch between them disappearing until their chests brushed against each other.
"Orm," Lingling whispered, her voice a low, vibrating hum that made Orm’s knees weak. "I want to be closer. Can I... may I kiss you?"
Orm didn't answer with words. She simply tightened her grip on Lingling’s shoulders and leaned in that final, agonising millimetre.
Their lips met with a soft, tentative pressure—a question finally answered. It was gentle at first, the taste of sweet chocolate and the coolness of the night air lingering between them. But as the reality of the contact sank in, the gentleness shattered into something much deeper.
Lingling let out a low growl of a sigh, her mouth opening against Orm’s, their lips tangling with a perfect, desperate symmetry. It was as if every sarcastic remark, every jealous stare, and every silent longing of the past two years was being poured into this single point of contact.
They pulled away for a fleeting second, both gasping for oxygen, their foreheads resting against each other. But the separation was unbearable. Lingling groaned and captured Orm’s lips again, this time with an eager, hungry passion.
Lingling’s hands slid from Orm’s waist to her back, pulling her flush against her. The contact of their chests, heart beating against heart through their scrubs, sent a jolt of pure electricity through Orm. She responded by tangling her fingers deep into Lingling’s jet-black hair, pulling her closer, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss until it was bruising and breathless.
The kiss grew more fervent, a rhythmic, messy, and beautiful exchange of souls. In the heat of it, Orm felt a surge of pure, unadulterated pleasure and accidentally let out a small, soft moan against Lingling’s lips.
The sound cut through the quiet rooftop like a lightning strike.
They broke apart instantly, both of them breathing as if they had just run a marathon. They were still on hospital premises—standing under the security cameras, just floors above the patients and the prying eyes of the night-shift staff.
Orm leaned back against the railing, her lips swollen and glistening, her hair a chaotic mess from Lingling’s hands. Lingling stood before her, her own lips red and her chest heaving, her dark eyes still burning with a hunger that made Orm’s skin tingle.
"We... we should stop," Lingling panted, though her hand was still firmly resting on Orm’s hip. "We’re still at the hospital."
"I know," Orm whispered, her voice shaky. She reached out and touched her own lips, the ghost of Lingling’s kiss still searing her skin. "But that was... wow."
Lingling let out a shaky, triumphant laugh, her thumb tracing the line of Orm’s jaw. "Yeah. 'Wow' doesn't even cover it."
She took a deep breath, forcing her cool composure back into place, though her dilated pupils gave her away. She reached down and took Orm’s hand, interlacing their fingers tightly.
"Let’s go home," Lingling said, her voice dropping into a promise. "Once we step out of those front doors... I don't intend to stop."
Orm nodded, a giddy, adventurous smile breaking across her face. They walked toward the rooftop door, their shoulders brushed, two women no longer defined by their titles or their roles, but by the electric, undeniable truth of the kiss they had just shared.
The patient in the ICU was still in critical condition, and the morning shift was only hours away, but as they stepped into the elevator, the moon was far more beautiful than she had ever imagined.
The drive from the hospital to the residential wing was a blur of neon lights and heavy silence—the kind of silence that hummed with everything they had been holding back. The elevator ride felt like an eternity, the numbers ticking upward as Lingling’s hand gripped Orm’s with a white-knuckled intensity.
The moment the door to Lingling’s apartment clicked shut, the last of Lingling’s clinical restraint completely unraveled.
For two years, Lingling had built walls of ice and sarcasm to protect herself from the warmth Orm radiated. Tonight, those walls didn't just melt; they shattered. Lingling pressed Orm against the door, her hands trembling as she framed Orm's face. Her touch was no longer that of a superior or a colleague; she touched Orm like a loyal devotee reaching for a sacred god.
"I’ve wanted this for so long," Lingling whispered against Orm's lips, her voice a raw, jagged confession. "I’ve been so hungry for you, Orm."
They didn't make it to the bedroom immediately. A trail of discarded scrubs and a soft cotton jacket marked their path across the floor. In the dim, ambient light of the apartment, their bare skin seemed to glow. Lingling was meticulous, her hands mapping every curve and dip of Orm’s body with a reverence that made Orm feel cherished beyond words.
Every touch burned. Every kiss was a demand and a promise. Lingling moved with a blend of fierce passion and breathtaking gentleness, as if she were afraid that if she pressed too hard, Orm might vanish like a dream. But Orm was solid, warm, and eager, her hands tangling in Lingling’s hair, pulling her closer, demanding more.
When they finally reached the bed, Orm didn't want to lead. She wanted to be overwhelmed. She wanted to see Lingling lose her mind.
Lingling leaned over her, her dark hair falling like a silk curtain around them. As Lingling’s mouth traveled to every sensitive spot, worshiping her with a focus more intense than any surgery, Orm’s world narrowed down to a single point of pleasure.
When Lingling finally moved lower, her devotion reaching a fever pitch, Orm’s head fell back against the pillows. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic hum of the city outside and Orm’s voice—a soft, broken litany of Lingling’s name, over and over, until the high they were riding finally broke, leaving them both breathless and reborn.
In the quiet afterglow, they didn't move away. They collapsed into each other’s arms, skin-to-skin, finding a sense of salvation in the tangle of their limbs. Only leaves two women who were simply, utterly in love.
Lingling showered Orm with lazy, soothing kisses, her lips trailing over Orm's shoulders and neck, lingering on the small bruises and marks she left behind—tender badges of their passion.
"I'm not letting you go," Lingling murmured into the crook of Orm's neck, her voice heavy with sleep and satisfaction. "Not now. Not ever."
Orm smiled, her eyes closed as she breathed in Lingling’s scent. "You couldn't get rid of me if you tried, Dr. Kwong."
The morning sun spilled through the curtains, painting the room in soft hues of gold. The intensity of the night before had left behind a sweet, lingering shyness.
Lingling stood by her closet, her hair a bit messy, looking remarkably human. She tossed a clean, oversized black T-shirt and a pair of her jeans toward Orm. "Mine will be a little big on you, but it’s better than wearing yesterday’s scrubs back to work."
Orm pulled the shirt over her head. It smelled exactly like Lingling—cool, clean, and comforting. She caught her reflection in the mirror; the shirt swallowed her frame, the hem reaching her mid-thigh, making the "shift" in her life feel tangible.
They walked to the hospital side-by-side. They weren't holding hands this time, but they didn't need to. There was a different glow around them—a settled, radiant peace that made people stop and look as they entered the staff entrance.
They hadn't even reached the nurse's station when a familiar figure stepped out from the cafeteria, coffee in hand. Win froze, his eyes scanning them from head to toe. His gaze lingered on the black T-shirt Orm was wearing—a shirt he had seen Lingling wear a dozen times at late-night study sessions.
A slow, massive smirk spread across his face.
"Well, well," Win drawled, leaning against a pillar. "You two look... remarkably well-rested. Or perhaps not rested at all?"
Orm felt her face heat up, but she didn't look down. Lingling simply adjusted her stethoscope around her neck, her expression calm, though her eyes danced with a secret happiness.
"Nice shirt, Orm," Win teased, nodding toward the oversized fabric. "Matches Lingling’s jeans perfectly. Did you two... coordinate your outfits at the same apartment this morning?"
Lingling didn't deny it. She didn't even blink. She just stepped a fraction closer to Orm, her shoulder brushing against her girlfriend’s. "We’re on the same shift, Win. It’s called efficiency."
Win laughed, a bright, genuine sound. "Efficiency. Right.”
As Win walked away, still chuckling to himself, Orm looked at Lingling. The shyness was still there, but it was overshadowed by a profound sense of pride. She was wearing Lingling’s clothes, carrying Lingling’s heart, and walking into her future with the woman who had once been her distant moon.